


I Cannot Find the Words to Keep You

by TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Consensual Non-Consent, Crying, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Self-Esteem Issues, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reconciliation, Rough Oral Sex, Sex Work, Shame, Spit As Lube, Time to hurt the bard, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Victim Blaming, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28749111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG/pseuds/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG
Summary: He wondered why he never once told Geralt to stop.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 263





	I Cannot Find the Words to Keep You

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to the lovely [deerna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deerna/pseuds/deerna) for betaing this for me. ❤
> 
> Please heed the tags, everyone.
> 
> Side note, I use the word "whore" to refer to a sex worker, even though it's a stupid word and I dislike it immensely, but sex worker feels out of place in the Witcher universe to me.  
> Anyway, support sex workers, y'all.

Jaskier has tried. Tried so hard, over the years, to convince Geralt of the truth of his declarations of friendship. Of his devotion to the Witcher, even if their paths diverge often enough.

Jaskier always returns. Geralt never does.

The bard has lost count of how often he has awoken in an otherwise empty inn bed, empty where, just the night before, a Witcher had lain. The words, "Geralt, don't leave me," come to him as easy as breathing after all this time. 

Geralt never told him to stay, to accompany him. Never that. But he stopped telling him to go away, years ago, so that has to count for something, right?

* * *

The first time Geralt fucked him, Jaskier thought that surely things would be different between them afterwards. It wasn't gentle or, gods forbid,  _ romantic _ , no. The Witcher was rough, focused, but he kissed Jaskier and made sure he came first before Geralt pulled out and spent himself over the bard's back. It was  _ good _ , it was what Jaskier  _ wanted _ .

The next day the bed was empty again, and that was the first time Jaskier cried over having been left behind.

* * *

Jaskier plucks idly at his lute, his mind wandering the way it does so often when he's walking like this,  trailing behind Roach once more, Geralt for all intents and purposes uninterested in whether or not he follows. 

He can't help but think about last night, when Geralt returned from a hunt angrier than Jaskier has seen him in a long time. The alderman had paid not even half of the agreed upon price, and Geralt was fuming. 

Storming into the clearing they had made their camp in, he grabbed Jaskier by the neck without a word, threw him over a fallen tree and fucked into him, with only the barest preparation. Jaskier's voice had cracked on his cry of not-quite pain, as Geralt snarled and fucked him harder.

Tears had been streaming down Jaskier's face, and when Geralt grabbed his neck again and forced his face into the dirt, Jaskier, for the first time in all these years, wondered why he stayed.

He wondered why he never once told Geralt to stop.

After, Jaskier cleaned himself up as much as he could. There had been leaves in his hair, dirt wet from his tears smeared across his cheek and his own come across his belly, and he had barely been able to sit.

It still stings. Jaskier watches the broad back of the Witcher riding before him for a long moment, and then stops in the middle of the road, lute falling silent.

It takes Geralt a good minute to realise he's not following any more, and when he looks back over his shoulder, he's obviously annoyed. "What," he barks, turning Roach around until he's in front of Jaskier again.

Jaskier looks up at him, silent. He doesn't think he could ever forget Geralt, but nevertheless, he looks his fill now, commits him to memory. "I'm leaving."

Geralt frowns. "Why."

A hundred reasons, really. It would take him far too long to list them all, and so he settles on, "I need to protect myself."

The frown deepens. " _ I _ protect you." Geralt shifts in the saddle, confused.

The smile Jaskier plasters onto his face tugs painfully at the corners of his mouth. "You can't protect my heart," he says, "and you don't protect me from yourself."

There's a moment of horrible, tense silence, and then Geralt swings his leg over Roach's back, slides down. When he turns to Jaskier, he looks pained. "You always talk so much," he says, "but you're not saying what you mean. Speak plainly."

Jaskier swallows drily. "You know what I mean, Geralt. Don't pretend to be stupid."

Geralt stares at him, and Jaskier can pinpoint the moment where comprehension dawns. The Witcher's face moves from confusion to thinking, to understanding and into as close to horrified as Jaskier has ever seen on him. Geralt opens his mouth and closes it again, and then he croaks, "I thought you wanted it."

Jaskier’s heart cracks, splinters, and he chuckles painfully. "I did. In a way." He shifts, grimaces. "But not like this."

"Jaskier-"

"I can't go on like this," he says. "I've... I've spent so much time begging for your friendship, for your...  _ affection _ . I thought I'd get it once I got you to fuck me, but it became  _ less _ , somehow. You keep hurting me, and I keep letting you, and I can't do it anymore."

Geralt presses his lips together tightly. "I didn't realise."

"I know." That's the worst part of it. He knows Geralt never intended to hurt him, not really. Oblivious as he is, he's too good for that, but Jaskier had never complained even when he'd been left with bruises and a sore arse, had made it easy for him to disregard his boundaries.

It's his own fault, really. If he hadn't been so  _ desperate _ , he wouldn't have been hurt. But that's the story of his life, isn't it?

"I'll see you around, I guess," he says and turns away, his heart sinking as he walks, the distance between them growing, until there's a fork in the road.

When Jaskier dares to look back over his shoulder, Geralt is gone.

He keeps walking, and with each step that takes him further away from the Witcher, he swears he can feel his heart harden, more and more until the cracks in it calcify, until the pain he feels is nothing but a dull background ache.

* * *

The finger shaped bruises on his hips are all but gone two weeks later, and Jaskier hates it.

* * *

It's been a shitty couple of months since he left Geralt on that road in the middle of nowhere, and he's been adrift ever since. He still performs, puts a smile on his face and plays his part, but he hasn't written anything new in ages, and there's something hollow behind his breast.

He's sitting in a dark corner at Crippled Kate's in Novigrad, staring into his third really rather horrible ale of the evening, when Jerzy finds him. Jaskier has never met him, Crippled Kate's not exactly his usual scene, but he knows he is one of the few male whores in all of Novigrad, and isn't it just his luck that the man is tall and broad and blond. Jaskier follows him up to one of the rooms without a thought.

"What do you want?" Jerzy asks, running a finger along the bottom edge of Jaskier's doublet.

"Hurt me," Jaskier says, and tries to ignore the way Jerzy's face twitches for a second. "I want you to leave bruises. Marks. Make me feel it."

Jerzy's lips thin for a second; he's obviously not thrilled with the idea, but coin is coin, Jaskier supposes, and he doesn’t give further complaints. "Do you have a word? In case you want to stop."

"Don't need one," Jaskier murmurs, then takes the man's hand and puts it on the back of his neck. "Don't hold back."

Jerzy's face hardens, and he digs his fingers into Jaskier's neck. "Alright." He drags him over to the bed and tosses him on top without preamble. Jaskier falls flat on his face, barely catching himself on his hands. "Remember you asked for this," the man adds, and then he tugs Jaskier's doublet back, halfway down his arms, immobilising him.

Jaskier's heart is racing. He lies there, face pressed into the sheets and arms caught behind his back, and all he feels is anticipation. Jerzy tugs his trousers down roughly, making an appreciative noise in the back of his throat. 

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut. "Don't talk," he gasps as the man strokes a hand along the curve of his arse, "please, just...  _ don't _ say anything."

His only answer is a surprisingly gentle squeeze of his cheek, and then the gentleness is gone. Jerzy drags his fingers down his crack, over his hole, then down to fondle his balls roughly. Jaskier sucks in a breath. He can hear the rustle of fabric behind himself, the whisper of skin on skin, and then Jerzy is spitting on his hole and roughly pushing a finger into him.

Jaskier cries out, not expecting it, and Jerzy sets a quick pace right away. It burns, stings, and Jaskier grits his teeth and pushes back into it. The man spits again and there's a second finger, far too quickly, and Jaskier arches his back and whimpers.

It hurts, the stretch too much too fast, His eyes grow wet.

Fuck, what's  _ wrong _ with him? He has missed this, and he knows how fucked up that is, that it's not really  _ this _ that he wants, that he misses  _ Geralt _ , but now that he's started he can't stop.

He doesn't  _ want _ to stop.

There's more spit, and a third finger, and his body shies away from it, but Jerzy holds him in place with a hand on the small of his back as he harshly fucks him open. The tears finally spill over and Jaskier pushes his face into the sheets to muffle his sobs, until Jerzy slides a hand into his hair and pulls his head up. Jaskier gasps, his spine bent uncomfortably since he can't support himself with his hands behind his back.

Geralt had him almost exactly like this once, potions still coursing through his veins, and Jaskier closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the memory. It's  _ Geralt's _ hand in his hair,  _ Geralt's _ fingers in his arse, and Jaskier whimpers and pushes back into the rough thrusts.

It's  _ Geralt _ , and he wants to be good for him. Maybe if he's good enough, the Witcher will keep him. Maybe, if he's good, he'll come back to him.

The fingers disappear and he whines at the sting they leave behind, feels himself clench around nothing. Jer-  _ Geralt _ spits, again and again, and then there's the heavy drag of his cock between Jaskier's cheeks, slick with saliva, and then he presses inside, slowly but unrelenting, and Jaskier squirms and whimpers. His hair is released and he falls forward into the sheets again, and then there are hands on his hips, holding him steady.

_ Fuck _ , it's been so long. He tried having sex after he'd left Geralt, tried going back to how he'd been before, fucking his way across the continent, but he just... couldn't. He wanted it, desperately, but his body didn't cooperate, and now he's gone months without it, and he's too tight and not used to the intrusion any more and when the man behind him bottoms out, he bucks and cries into the sheets. Fingers dig into his flesh, hard, to keep him in place, and he knows there will be bruises. Good.

_ Geralt _ starts moving after a moment, and it's too much, too much friction and not enough lubrication, and he knows he'll bleed from this, and he welcomes it even as he cries and whimpers and tries to squirm away.

He doesn't tell the man to stop. The thought doesn't even enter his mind.

The thrusts are slow and measured at first, but it doesn't last long. Soon the hand at the back of his neck returns, holding him in place. The man curls around his back, pushes his doublet and chemise up to bare his back, and then, on a particularly vicious thrust that makes Jaskier scream into the mattress, there are teeth over his ribs. He flinches, tries to jerk away but there's nowhere to go.

He aches, everywhere, and then there's a hand between his legs and he realises he's hard and dripping. He sobs again. Gods, he's so fucked up.

He's crying in earnest now, every thrust forcing a pained moan from him, and he's so close he can almost taste it.  _ Geralt _ straightens up again, takes hold of his hips with both hands, and really starts fucking him, putting his back into it. Jaskier feels like his teeth are rattling in his head, the force of the thrusts pushing him across the mattress. He twists and squirms and tilts his hips, and when the man's cock rams into his sweet spot, he's gone. He comes with a shout, his back arching. The man fucks him through it, keeps going even as Jaskier shakes from both overstimulation and pain, and then he groans and pulls out, hot seed splattering over Jaskier's back.

They're both breathing hard. Jaskier can't stop shaking. Jerzy strokes a gentle hand along his flank, and Jaskier collapses to the side, moaning as pain lances through him. He just lies there, staring at the headboard of the bed, until Jerzy sits down beside him, carefully brushing his sweaty hair away from his forehead.

"You alright?" His voice is gentle, and Jaskier pulls his knees up against his chest and dissolves into fresh sobs. Jerzy stays where he is, softly combing his fingers through Jaskier's hair until he calms down. "I'll clean you up now," he says quietly, and Jaskier listens to him walk away, hears the door open and close. Jerzy returns a moment later, and then there's a damp, warm rag against his back, wiping away Jerzy's seed. He hisses when the rag slides between his cheeks, and Jerzy makes a soothing noise.

When he's done there, he urges Jaskier onto his back and cleans his stomach and cock, and Jaskier stares at the ceiling. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, and Jerzy stills. "For making you do this."

Jerzy chuckles darkly. "You didn't make me do anything. I could've said no. But it's a matter of professional integrity, my friend. I'd rather you get what you need here than out there somewhere and get yourself hurt worse than you wanted."

Fresh tears leak from Jaskier's eyes, and he presses his lips together tightly.

When he’s done, Jerzy stands and puts the rag and basin with water away on a dresser. With his back to Jaskier, he says, "You're the bard, aren't you? Jaskier."

Jaskier pushes himself up onto his elbows, frowns at Jerzy's back. "Why?"

The man turns around and gives him a considering look. "You said a name when you came. Geralt."

Ice drops into Jaskier's guts. No, he can't have-

"I assume it's Geralt of Rivia, your Witcher," Jerzy continues, still watching him. When Jaskier doesn't say anything, he tilts his head. "He's in town."

No.  _ No _ , please, no.

"I don't know what this thing between you two is, but if I may give you some advice? Talk to him." He shifts his weight. "If you continue like this, you'll end up dead."

Jaskier pushes himself to his feet, ignores the pain shooting up his spine, and pulls his trousers up. "Thanks for the warning." He grabs his satchel from its spot by the door and digs out his coin purse. "How much do I owe you?"

He ignores the look of pity Jerzy gives him when he walks him downstairs, and he all but runs from the building. He's in agony, his hole raw and, he's sure, bleeding, but he needs to go, needs to get away, needs to-

Jaskier stumbles, barely catches himself against a low stone balustrade. The sting against his palms distracts him for a moment from the sting between his legs, and he stands there, breathing harshly. His face is wet again, and he stares out across the water as he tries to get his breathing under control.

He needs to leave the city, as quickly as he can. Needs to put distance between himself and Geralt, needs to-

There's a hand on his shoulder, and he whips around with a scream, and then he thinks he's going to be sick.

Geralt.

Geralt, who is looking at him with genuine concern. "Jaskier, are you alright?"

Is he  _ alright _ ? Jaskier laughs, raw and hysterical, and then he turns away from Geralt and vomits over the stone wall.

When he's done, Geralt is, unfortunately, still there. There's that eternal frown on his face, that line between his brows, and Jaskier takes a step away from him. "Fancy seeing you here," he says, and his voice wobbles only slightly.

"You're hurt," Geralt says, straight to the point as usual, and Jaskier's lips press together.

"I'm fine."

"You're not."

They stare at each other, and Jaskier doesn't know whether to turn around and run or fall to his knees and beg Geralt to take him back.

"Jaskier-"

"Don't, Geralt. I'm fine, really."

"You don't smell fine. Don't look like it either."

"Since when do you care about that?" It's unfair, maybe, but he doesn't want to have this conversation.

Geralt looks back at him, an unreadable expression on his face. "I've had quite some time to think. I want-" His mouth thins. "I want to make things right, Jaskier."

Jaskier laughs. His back spasms where Jerzy bit him, and his arse hurts, and Geralt wants to  _ apologise _ . "Oh, well, then I had better give you my undivided attention."

"I'm sorry," Geralt says, and just like that Jaskier deflates. "I'm sorry for not realising what I was doing to you. For hurting you. For driving you away."

Jaskier can't do anything but stare at the Witcher. He has waited for these words for  _ years _ , and Geralt picks the moment when his arse is bleeding and he smells of another man's spend and he can hardly stand up any more, too emotionally exhausted.

"I... I miss you, Jaskier."

Something bitter and ugly crawls up his throat, and he can't keep it in. His lips part and venom drips out. " _ Fuck you _ ," he spits. "I suffered through your moods and your violence for years. I missed you when I stood  _ next to you _ ." Geralt just lets him talk, and Jaskier hates it. He wants the man to argue, to fight back, but he just stands there and takes it. "You  _ ruined me, _ Geralt," he says, "I can't fuck people any more, I got so used to what you did to me that I had to pay someone to do it."

Geralt's eyes widen, and he takes a step back as though Jaskier has shoved him. "The blood-"

_ "Yes _ ," Jaskier hisses. "I had to pay a whore to  _ rape me _ , had to pretend he was you, because I've forgotten how to be- How to be  _ normal _ ." He turns away, tears streaming down his face again. He doesn't remember when he started crying. "You took me and twisted me all up, and I don't know how to go back to who I was."

Geralt's arms are around him, and Jaskier collapses, hides his face against his chest and sobs. The Witcher holds him, silent, a hand stroking his hair, and Jaskier clings to him as though Geralt is his only tether to the ground.

"I'm sorry," Geralt says when Jaskier has calmed down somewhat, his lips brushing against Jaskier's forehead. "I had no idea I was hurting you like that. You- You just-  _ Let me _ , and I didn't realise- I should've known."

"Yes," Jaskier says, "you should have. But you didn't."

"What can I do to make this right, Jaskier? Please tell me."

Jaskier presses his cheek against the Witcher's breastplate. "I don't know. I don't know if I can... be fixed."

"Let me try," Geralt says quietly. "I owe you that much."

And Jaskier knows he'll say yes.

He'll  _ always _ say yes to whatever Geralt asks of him.

* * *

Geralt brings him to Triss Merigold's house. The trip takes far longer than it needs to, the sting between Jaskier's legs slowing him down, but Geralt is patient. It only serves to drive home just how guilty he feels. 

Triss smiles when they enter, but her face falls when she sees the pinched expression on his face. "By Melitele, what happened to you, Dandelion?" 

She's out of her chair immediately, fussing over him, but Geralt waves her away. "I'll take care of it," he says, and Triss gives him a look before she squeezes Jaskier's hand and goes upstairs.

Geralt brings him to a bathing room, and Jaskier just... lets him. The Witcher undresses him gently, his hands stilling for just a moment when he uncovers the bite on Jaskier's ribs. Jaskier should probably feel self-conscious, ashamed, but he can't summon the energy he'd need for that.

Geralt guides him into the tub, washes him with a gentleness Jaskier can hardly bear. The water turns slightly pink, and he thinks vaguely that he must be hurt worse than he thought, if there's this much blood.

"It looks worse than it is," Geralt says quietly. "A little blood goes a long way."

"Hmm."

When he's clean, Geralt pats him dry and dresses him in a loose nightshirt he's sure belongs to Triss before leading him to what must be a guest room. It's cozy, with a four-poster bed with heavy drapes, dark wood walls that makes it appear smaller than it is. Jaskier crawls into bed, his exhaustion pulling him down, and he watches silently as Geralt collects his armour from the bathing room and stacks it in a corner. That done, Geralt watches him for a moment before he turns to sit in the chair by the fireplace.

Jaskier makes a soft noise he'd be hard pressed to call anything but a whine.

"Can you... Come here," he says and pats the bed beside him. Geralt looks back at him, face unreadable. 

"Are you sure?" he asks, and Jaskier nods.

It's awkward for all of five seconds once Geralt has pulled off his boots and sat down on the bed beside him, and then Jaskier pushes close and winds an arm around the Witcher's hips, his face pressed against his waist. Geralt's hand comes to rest on his shoulder, thumb drawing small circles there, and Jaskier is asleep within moments.

* * *

Jaskier wakes up slowly at first, and then all at once. He hurts, everywhere, and he whimpers and curls around himself, and then there's a hand in his hair and he jumps.

Geralt is still sitting next to him, looking down at him with undeniable concern.

"I'm fine," Jaskier gasps, his other mantra through the years beside his pleas not to be left behind. Not being fine meant being a burden, which in turn meant Geralt would leave all the sooner.

"Are you?"

"Just... sore. It'll pass."

"Triss could have a look-"

"No!" He flushes, curls around his middle again. It's bad enough that Geralt knows what happened, he doesn't need Triss to witness his depravity, too. "It's fine, really, just have to take it easy for a bit and I'll be right as rain in no time."

Geralt just watches him silently for a long moment. "Hm."

Anger flares in Jaskier's belly, hot and bitter, and he rolls over, turns his back on Geralt. He doesn't want to look at him any more. 

"I've been thinking," Geralt says after a while, "about us. About... how I treated you. I don't-" He huffs, frustration evident in his tone. "I don't know why I didn't see it."

Jaskier stares at the wall. His eyes burn. "I kept asking myself why I stayed for so long. I should've left after the first time it happened, but- I was so desperate. I-" His voice cracks, and he winds his arms around himself. "I so desperately wanted you to like me."

Again, Geralt is silent for a long time. Then he says, "I always liked you, Jaskier."

The bard laughs, short and harsh, because really. "Then you have a very odd way of showing your affection." He gingerly rolls over again. "You just left me behind,  _ all the time _ . I'd wake up and you were gone. And then when we started having sex, that didn't change, it just meant I was now alone with a sore arse and bruises on my hips."

Geralt is staring at him, and Jaskier wants to punch him.

"I didn't even mind the roughness. I mean-" he waves a hand at himself. "But after a time you just... You  _ used me, _ Geralt, like I wasn't- Like I wasn't even a person, just something to help you get off." His eyes are wet again, and he curls a hand into the blankets, pulling them up to his chin. "I wanted... I wanted to  _ matter _ to you, for who I am, not just as a convenient hole you could have whenever you wanted."

"Fuck, Jaskier, I didn't-" The Witcher scrubs at his face with both hands, making a frustrated noise. It's very gratifying to watch. "I messed up," he says finally, staring at his hands, and Jaskier chuckles bitterly.

"Yes," he says softly, "you did." Jaskier rolls onto his back and regrets it immediately, but he doesn't shift. The ache helps him think. "I don't remember when I first thought I should leave, but once the thought was there, I couldn't get rid of it, even though I wanted to. I tried to convince myself that I wanted what you were giving me. That it was enough." He chews on his lip for a moment. "It never was. I don't- I don't even hold that against you. I'm an adult, I could've told you no, that was my responsibility."

"It wasn't," Geralt says, voice laced with bitterness. "I'm supposed to- I should've protected you from myself, and I failed." His hands curl into fists in his lap. "I should go."

Jaskier thought the pain he felt every time Geralt left would lessen over time, that the wound of it would scab over and let him rest. It never did, and it flares to life even now, hot and anxious. "Don't," he whispers, and Geralt jolts. Jaskier rolls onto his side again, presses his forehead against the Witcher's hip. "Please don't leave. I'll die if you leave." 

And it's probably true. Jerzy was right - he'll end up in a situation he can't control, and then he'll be dead in an alley somewhere. The bitter, hurt part of himself thinks that that would serve Geralt right. Let him live with the guilt of his death for the rest of his many days. The raw, broken part of him just wants to stay right here, with Geralt's heat to keep him warm, with his scent to reassure him, and that’s how he knows he's a mess, a pathetic, ridiculous idiot.

"Jaskier," Geralt says, and his voice is so soft, so gentle, it makes Jaskier burst into fresh tears. The Witcher's hand is on his back then, stroking carefully up and down, and Jaskier cries and cries, until he feels empty of anything at all.

* * *

Geralt stays.

It takes a day for Jaskier to recuperate enough to walk without pain, and Triss is happy to host them. She offers to heal him only once, accepting it without comment when he declines.

Geralt, meanwhile, seems to have gone from not visibly caring about whether or not Jaskier is there, to not letting him out of his sight for longer than it takes Jaskier to use the privy. Jaskier is very aware that it's mostly due to Geralt's stupid martyr complex but he can't really be arsed to care: he has the Witcher's undivided attention, and he will take whatever he can get. At least he's aware of his own patheticalness .

They stay for nearly a week, and when Geralt tells him he's heading for Temeria, it's not even a question whether or not Jaskier follows.

Things are much the same, and also very much not. It's clear Geralt is making an effort. He stops more often to let Jaskier rest, he's less stingy with the details of his hunts. He doesn't return to camp before he's burned through his potions.

It's all very odd, and Jaskier isn't really sure what he ought to do.

Things finally come to a head three weeks after they left Novigrad, and Jaskier has to admit that he's been itching for it the whole time. They're in some no-name village at the very edge of Temeria where Geralt has been hired to take care of a noonwraith, and Jaskier is restless. While Geralt is gone, he drinks, and keeps drinking, until he can barely stand anymore, and when the tall man with a glint in his eye tugs him outside, he lets himself be dragged along.

The man pushes him to his knees behind the inn, and the ground tilts dangerously beneath Jaskier for a moment, until the man grabs a fistful of his hair and feeds him his cock. Jaskier holds onto the man's breeches, lets the contact anchor him as he opens his mouth wide, as he relaxes his jaw. The man smells sour, like old sweat, but Jaskier tunes it out, concentrates instead on the weight of the cock on his tongue, the feeling of it nudging the back of his throat.

He's not really in any state to enjoy this, and much too drunk to really be more than a wet hole for the man to use, and he doesn't give a fuck. Jaskier closes his eyes, and lets it happen.

The man doesn't last long even with how unskilled and sloppy Jaskier is, coming down his throat with a groan, and Jaskier blinks up at him through the tears that have welled up in his eyes. The man, whose name Jaskier never bothered to find out, grins down at him. "Guess the rumours about you are true."

Jaskier frowns, mind slow and muddled from alcohol. "Rumours?"

The man laughs as he tucks himself back into his breeches. "That the Witcher's whore bends over for anyone."

Before Jaskier can make sense of the words, there's a growl from the end of the alley, and a moment later the man is slammed against the wall by a leather-clad hand. Jaskier blinks dumbly at the scene in front of him.

Geralt looks absolutely livid, the way that so often meant Jaskier would find himself bent over the next semi-flat surface. Now, he's directing all of that anger at the man as he pushes him into the wall. "What did you call him."

Jaskier's alcohol-addled brain chuckles at that. Leave it to Geralt to not care about inflections even when threatening some poor sod.

The man blanches. "The-  _ Fuck _ , I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

" _ What _ did you  _ call him _ ."

"Th-the Witcher's whore, I'm  _ sorry _ , I didn't-"

Geralt's hand tightens around the man's throat, until he turns red, then purple. Geralt doesn't let go until the man has passed out.

Jaskier is still kneeling in the dirt, blinking up at the Witcher. Then he giggles.

Geralt grabs him by the scruff of his doublet and hauls him to his feet, drags him out of the alley towards where Roach is waiting in front of the inn. He doesn't say anything, just lifts Jaskier up into the saddle, then mounts up behind him, and a moment later they're leaving the village at a brisk trot.

He has no idea how long they ride, as he dozes off soon, his head tipping back against Geralt's shoulder. When he comes to again, the sun is a good deal lower in the sky, and his head throbs. Behind him, Geralt remains silent.

They stop soon after, Geralt guiding Roach off the road and down to a brook. He still doesn't say anything, and Jaskier is starting to feel sick with anticipation. He knows the Witcher is going to blow up at some point.

He's pretty much useless, sitting on the ground and watching Geralt set up while he tries not to puke. Finally, Geralt sits down beside him, staring into the fire.

Jaskier wants to claw his own face off.

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

"What do you want me to say?" Geralt looks over at him, and he looks incredibly tired.

"I don't know. There's obviously something that's bothering you."

Geralt snorts a laugh at that. "That's one way of putting it."

"Then spit it out. We're both too old to tiptoe around this."

The Witcher looks at him for a long moment, not saying anything. He's as handsome as ever, with his stupid white hair and his stupid chiseled jaw and those stupid golden eyes, and Jaskier wants to kiss the living daylights out of him.

Finally Geralt looks away, back at the fire. "I saw you in that alley. Before he finished. You just sat there and took it, and... And I thought,  _ that's mine _ ."

Jaskier's stomach swoops.

"When he called you my- My whore, I couldn't- It hurt to hear that, because it's how I've treated you, and-" He presses his lips together, hard, until they go nearly white. "I realised a part of me wants it, still."

_ Fuck _ .

"Geralt, what do you mean by that?"

The Witcher turns to look at him. He looks like, now,  _ he _ might throw up. "I want you on your knees for no one but me. I want you begging for it." He squeezes his eyes shut, and Jaskier's heart is about to hammer out of his chest. "But I don't want to hurt you. Not- Not the way I did."

There's nothing but the rushing of his blood in his ears. Jaskier's head feels stuffed full of wool, until, all of a sudden, he hears himself say, "I want that, too."

Geralt's eyes fly open, and his lip curls into a snarl. "No, Jaskier, I won't- I can't-"

Jaskier's mind is racing, ideas bursting to life. "What if we had... signals? For when I needed you to stop."

"You can't be serious."

"Why not?" Jaskier looks away, finally, over where Roach is quietly grazing. "If we both want it, and there are rules, what's the harm?"

"Jaskier, I  _ raped you _ ," Geralt chokes out, his voice wet with unshed tears. "Again and again, and I never realised that's what I was doing. How can you even consider-"

"Because I'm still in love with you, you idiot." By rights, he should be hissing this at Geralt. Shouting it. Screaming. Instead his voice is soft, just loud enough to be heard over the crackling fire. He can feel Geralt's gobsmacked gaze on him. "I ought to hate you, but the only thing I hate is your fucking obliviousness, and my own cowardice."

The Witcher says nothing, but Jaskier can feel how tightly coiled he is, how frazzled.

"I know I'm... annoying and loud and shameless, and I hoped... I wished that you'd love me back, the way I loved you. Letting you do all those things to me was my way of proving myself to you, in my mind." He looks over at Geralt again. The Witcher is incredibly pale, more so than usual. "But we never talked about it, never said what we actually wanted." He heaves a breath. "We can do that now. If you want to."

_ Please say you want to. _

Geralt looks at him for a long time, not saying anything. His gaze flickers across Jaskier's face, over his throat, his doublet, his hands. Jaskier can almost feel it against his skin. Then the Witcher says, "You'd give me a chance?"

And Jaskier can't do anything but smile. "We'll have to have many conversations about this, but yes. If  _ you _ are willing to give us," and he takes Geralt's hand in his, "a chance."

Geralt looks him in the eye, and his fingers tighten around his.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/formerly_as_g?s=09)!


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